


The Shamash

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chanukah, Gen, Hanukkah, Holiday, Holidays, Jewish, Judaism, chanukkah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21980323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Edmund visits Deborah's orphanage on the eighth night of Hanukkah and learns not only about the holiday but about Deborah's perception of his role in the lives of those who call the East End their home.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	The Shamash

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to anyone who reads what I put out into the world. 
> 
> I've always adored the Jewish aspects that arise in Ripper Street and, with attached I am to them, I'm surprised it's taken me this long to write a Jewish-themed fic. I'm sure there will be more to come. But, as for this one, I hope you all enjoy. <3 Love to you all, and Happy Hanukkah.

When Edmund stepped foot inside the orphanage, he was met with near-darkness. 

For a moment, he wondered if Deborah’s supply of fuel had run out. He sprinted up the stairs, worried that the children in her care would be scared, cold, and lonely, especially at this time of year. 

Christmas, yes, but the dead of winter also. In recent days, temperatures had dived lower than he had ever experienced. And in those same days, he found his thoughts diverted to the well-being of Deborah’s orphans. Whether it was the good influence of Deborah herself or of his wife, he did not know—perhaps both, in their own ways—but Edmund felt the drive to do real, tangible good. And, so, on Christmas Eve, he left his empty home and trod the streets to Deborah’s orphanage, his arms full of gifts. 

Gifts that spanned from the necessary—blankets and bread—to the luxurious—toys and puzzles, sweets and pastries. For Deborah herself, he carried a hand-stitched shawl and a pair of new leather boots. Insulated and water-resistant. Expensive. 

But he had no guilt. Deborah, who gave so much of herself, deserved them. 

So he carried all of his gifts into the orphanage and found Deborah in the primary hall, sitting at the window. The children were midway through their dinner—soup, from the sound of it—and they paid him little heed as he stepped quietly from the door to the window, joining Deborah. 

Only one light source drifted into the room—the moon. Soft, ambient moonlight danced about the room, lighting Deborah’s face, the tables at which the children ate, and, when he peered down, his own hands, which still held his offerings. 

He thrust them forward. “For you,” he said. “And your...children.” 

Deborah turned her head and looked first at his face, then down at his gifts. A small, crooked smile stretched across her face as she took his gifts. “A very thoughtful gesture,” she said. 

For a moment, Edmund felt himself awash in self-satisfied pleasure. Pride filled his chest, pride because he had done _some_ thing that made a small difference in the lives of others. A positive difference. 

But that feeling disappeared when none of the children—not one—reacted when she spread his gifts on the small table at the front of the room. The children seemed more enamored by their meals—the watery soup in front of them—than by the promise of gifts. 

“You must excuse them, Inspector,” Deborah said. “These children are not accustomed to gifts.” 

Edmund scanned the room, trying not to take offense to the children’s lack of interest. Deborah’s voice pulled his attention away. 

“And besides,” she said. “We do not celebrate Christmas here.” 

He raised his chin, intrigued. “Ah, do you not?” 

Deborah started to clear bowls of those who had finished. “While I take in non-Jewish children, Inspector Reid, and do not prohibit any child from celebrating their own customs, here, in this house, we celebrate the Jewish culture without shame or concealment.” 

Her eyes blazed with determination, and Edmund admired her for it. For her steely, hard resolve. She stood tall, her spine straight, her shoulders squared, a dirty bowl in her hands. He could not help but flash her a smile. 

“You laugh at me, Mr. Reid.” 

He shook his head. “No, no.” He felt stricken that she had misunderstood—that she had misread his admiration for derision. “Please, no,” he said, as quickly as he could. “I only find it admirable. Find _you_ admirable. And I only wish that you would show me how exactly you celebrate your culture.” 

She eyed him, warily at first, then with curiosity. Setting the bowl in the sink along the wall, she said, “You truly wish to know?” 

His brow furrowed, and he whipped his hat off his head in a show of deference and politeness. “Yes. Yes, of course. If you would share it.” 

She inhaled deeply and, after a long, slow exhale, replied, “The holiday we celebrate is one that reminds us that we have survived great persecution. That we have persevered through tragedy, with the help of others.” 

He watched as Deborah retrieved a small box of matches from a drawer, then walked slowly to the window. He followed her. 

“Some say that God performed a great miracle. Others simply say that we must remember that we are not alone, and that we should seek help from those around us, when it is needed,” she explained, stopping beside the window. 

Edmund watched and listened, absorbing her words as she stood before a candelabra that sat atop the windowsill. “That we should,” Deborah added, “accept this help, like a light in the darkness.” 

And then she lit a match and raised it to the only raised candle at the center of the candelabra. 

“This is the _shamash_ ,” she whispered, her voice reverant. 

“And its significance?” Edmund could not help but ask. 

As the wick caught fire, she responded, “It is Hebrew for ‘attendant.’ It is the candle with which we light all the other candles.”

“So it is always lit first?”

“Yes, always,” she said, raising the _shamash_ to the left-most candle. “And each candle is lit in turn, from left to right. But first, we recite blessings.” 

“Blessings?” he asked. “But you once told me that you were a secular woman. Yet now you tell me that you must recite blessings.” 

“It is mere ritual for me, Inspector,” she answered. “A comfort. Others take it very seriously. I...do not, but I recite these blessings to feel connected to my people. My community. My home.” 

He was not sure that he understood the difference, but he nodded and stayed quiet. 

With the flame poised over the left-most of the eight unlit candles, she chanted, “ _Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha’olam, asher kidishanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu l’had’lik neir shel Chanukah. Amein.”_

The melodic nature of her words entranced him, and he stared at her mouth as she formed each word—each one so foreign to him. When she reached the end, he met her eyes. 

“And now you say ‘Amen,’” she instructed. 

“Uh. Amen,” he said, not fully knowing what he was endorsing. But he said it to please her and was gratified—his chest as warm as the flames that sprung to life before her—when she turned her smiling face toward him, if only for a moment. 

After she had lit the four candles on the left side of the candelabra, she offered the _shamash_ to him. “Take it. Light the rest,” she said. 

He did not know whether it was proper—whether or not it was disrespectful—but he accepted the thin candle and, with a glance at the faces of the children—who seemed to urge him to continue—he held the candle to the fifth from the left. He lit one after another. Four in a row, until all eight candles blazed with warmth and lit the room with its glow. 

Deborah took the _shamash_ and placed it at the center of the candelabra. “The Chanukiah,” she informed him. 

“Chanukiah,” he repeated. “Thank you.” 

As he looked into her fire-lit eyes, he tried to communicate his thanks for more than a Hebrew pronunciation. He was not sure whether she had taken his meaning until, later, she turned to him over a plate of sausage and cabbage and said, “I am somehow not surprised that you came here today.” 

“Oh? And why is that?”

“It strikes me as appropriate that you arrived just in time to learn about our celebration of Chanukah. The hope. The light. The—”

“The _shamash_ ,” he said, proud of himself for remembering more than one Hebrew word. 

Deborah blushed—something she did not do often. “Yes, the _shamash_ , exactly,” she mused, partly to herself. “The _shamash_ , in particular, reminds me of you.” 

“Really?” he asked. “How so?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you really need to ask?” Spearing a piece of sausage, she continued. “You are the attendant to us all, Inspector. Our helper. Our light in the darkness.” 

Edmund nearly choked on his food. 

It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said to him. A statement of belief. Of faith. In him. 

He stared at her, his fork poised only a short distance from his mouth. He felt a strong impulse to kiss her—to show his gratitude for such a thoughtful kindness. But he snapped his mouth closed and offered her a tight-lipped smile. “I strive to do my best, Ms. Goren.” 

“I know you do, Inspector. I know you do.” 

He had to suppress his urges again when Deborah embraced him on her doorstep. When she brushed her lips against his ear and whispered, “Light the darkness, Edmund. Light the darkness.” 

And even though he never said it aloud, he took his response to heart. _I will try. I will always try._ Then he left the orphanage and returned to Leman Street, his faith in the world—at least for the moment—restored. 


End file.
